


A Lady's Armor

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cersei fosters at Riverrun, F/F, Femslash, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cersei detests feasts. They’re loud, crowded, and she has to mingle with lords and ladies far beneath her station. Perhaps she wouldn’t hate feasts quite so much if she and Catelyn were the only ones allowed to attend. Then they could drink and talk and dance their way into the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lady's Armor

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate summary to this fic is "though Cersei is in love with Catelyn, she's not Petyr Baelish. She does not creep on Sansa"

Cersei detests feasts. They’re loud, crowded, and she has to mingle with lords and ladies far beneath her station. Perhaps she wouldn’t hate feasts quite so much if she and Catelyn were the only ones allowed to attend. Then they could drink and talk and dance their way into the night. Sadly, that is not the case, nor will it ever be. Catelyn is Lord Tully’s daughter, and the guest of honor of the her name day feast, and she’s expected to dance with all of the boys who ask, despite her impending betrothal to Brandon Stark.

Cersei glares as she watches Catelyn twirl around with some Bracken boy, her deep blue dress fluffing out like a dandelion with seeds ripe to be blown away in the wind. She doesn’t really hold any ill will towards the Bracken boy, but it’s hard to convince herself of that that when he’s twirling around with Cat. It’s hard to convince herself of that when jealousy courses through her veins.

Across the floor, a wiry young man with a lump of thin, straw-colored hair looks towards her as though he wishes to ask her to dance. Cersei groans as he makes his way towards the high table. When he arrives she struggles to fight the urge to roll her eyes.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” he asks.

Cersei guesses that he is a Frey from the weaselly look of him.

“No,” she says icily.

“That’s not very ladylike,” the lad tells her. Cersei sends him a half-hearted glare that is apparently enough to drive the boy away. She doesn’t have time for petty lords’ sons. She doesn’t understand why Catelyn pretends to. She dances with every lad that asks.

Catelyn shouldn’t have to cater to all these lords so far beneath her. Cat has always been more dutiful than she has been, but Cersei supposes in some ways they’re both the same in their deviations. They ended up together in bed after all.

After dancing with what seems to be half of the men in the Riverlands, Catelyn finally takes a chance to sit down beside Cersei.

“This is exhausting,” she mutters as she takes a swig of summerwine.

“Catelyn Tully?” Cersei asks in mock confusion, “tired of being polite?”

“You can take that comment,” Cat whispers, “and shove it up your arse.”

“Perhaps you’d want to shove something else up my arse?” Cersei asks, half seductively and half jokingly. Catelyn turns as red as her hair and she discretely turns her head to make sure that they are still alone at the high table. They are, of course, and the two banter fairly freely for a time.

Then, a  lordling presumes to sit down beside Catelyn.

“I’m Dominic Mallister,” he states with a pompous air, “heir to Seaguard.”

Catelyn nods, though Cersei can tell that she’s at least highly uncomfortable. Cersei is enraged that the son of a bannerman would dare take a seat at the high table at Catelyn’s name day feast. Cersei sends him a look that withers servant girls and stable boys alike, but he doesn’t seem to notice it.

“House Mallister of Seaguard is the richest house sworn to House Tully,” he boasts, but Cersei simply rolls her eyes. Catelyn is the eldest child of Lord Tully, and this lordling is lying directly to her face. The Freys are the richest house sworn to House Tully, and if anyone would know that, it’s Catelyn.

Cat nods her head uncomfortably.

“I have already been knighted,” he claims, “and I’m the greatest swordsman at Seaguard.”

“Of course,” she says through gritted teeth.

“And you,” he says with an arrogant smirk, “are the most highborn and gorgeous girl in the Riverlands.”

“I’m betrothed,” she tells him, the words sounding as if they’ve gotten caught in her throat.

“We can work around that,” he decides aloud. Cersei sends Catelyn a look.

 _Let me help_ , she says with her eyes. She knows that Cat understands, because she shakes her head. Cersei lets out an angry little huff. She knows that Cat doesn’t want Cersei to fight her battles, but she wishes that Catelyn would _actually_ fight back then. Cat sends him an angry toothy smile that’s more of a snarl, but he doesn’t seem to get the hint. Dominic places a hand on Catelyn’s leg, and Cersei is nearly ready to pounce when the other girl stands up.

“Excuse me,” she says hastily, “I’m not feeling well.”

Cersei watches as her friend nearly runs across the floor, weaving between couples dancing es and clumps of people standing around and talking.

  
Cersei exhales in premature relief, but her breath quickly hitches again when she realizes that Dominic is _following_ Catelyn. For a moment, Cersei is frozen to her chair. A moment ago, Catelyn didn’t want her help. But, Cersei decides that she doesn’t care; she would follow Catelyn beyond the Wall, if she had to. At the edge of the hall lies the entrance to the castle’s vast system of corridors, and Dominic is about to follow Catelyn up to her chambers.

“You presume too much,” Cersei says, “Catelyn is betrothed to a nobler lord than you, Mallister.” Though she really wishes to say that Catelyn is in love with her, and that lions do not share. He then laughs in her face, and calls her a stupid woman.

“I promise,” Cersei tells him, “I will let Brandon Stark know of your advances if you do not leave her alone. Lord Tully’s other ward challenged Brandon for Catelyn’s hand, and the only reason he lived to tell the tale is that she begged for his life. You’d have no such protection.” He looks to her in horror, and Cersei Lannister smiles at him knowingly, knowing full well that her grin is fierce. Cersei turns on her heel, and follows Catelyn up to her chambers.

Cersei knocks on the door. Catelyn doesn’t open up the door.

“Cat,” Cersei says softly, “it’s me.” She hears the other girl undo the latch and open the door.

“Cersei,” she says in relief, “come in.” Cersei was planning to anyway, but it’s nice to hear the invitation aloud. Cersei waits for the door to slam shut behind her before she begins her rant.

“He was following me,” Catelyn says, “wasn’t he?” Cersei doesn’t grace that question with a response, because they both know the answer.

“Why would you let him do that?” Cersei demands, “why didn’t you do something?” She pauses a moment, trying to find the proper words to express her confusion, her frustration. Catelyn collapses onto her bed, and looks up at the ceiling.

“Why were you so polite?” Cersei demands.

Cat lets out a deep sigh and says, in a sort of resignation, “Courtesy is a lady’s armor.”

Cersei remembers her own septa telling her that once, but she never took it to heart. Cersei’s armor has always been harsh words and cold glares. But she supposes it wouldn’t save her any more than Catelyn’s courtesy would, if the situation ever did arise. Catelyn sits back up, and looks her in the eyes.

“At least it’s over,” she says. Cersei grabs her hand, and looks into her bright blue eyes- Tully eyes. Catelyn smiles at her, and they don’t speak for a long time. Cersei’s not sure there’s anything to say tonight.

They don’t kiss fiercely or fuck or anything of the sort tonight. They fall asleep curled together, and Cersei listens to the other girl’s breathing. She reminds herself that all of the little lords will be gone within the sennight.

* * *

 

****  
  


It seems to Cersei that serving as queen regent is little more than cleaning up her son’s messes. Half the time, she feels more like a glorified chambermaid than a queen, running about and making sure he doesn’t muck anything up too badly. But, she is rid of Robert, and she supposes that is still something to rejoice over. When their marriage wasn’t barren and lifeless, it was full of shouting, slaps and hatred. It’s much easier to be alone than to be with him.  

She walks through the walls of the palace. When she enters the great hall, she realizes that she will have to play royal chambermaid again. Sansa Stark is curled up in a small, half-clothed ball on the floor while one of the White Cloaks beats her.

“What is going on here?” Cersei asks, her voice as harsh as a crow’s screech. The knight withdraws his hand, and looks back to her in confusion.

“It’s not me,” Joffrey claims with a cocksure little grin, one that reminds her too much of the man who was never truly his father, “see, mother. I never lifted a finger.” Cersei tries to hide her own disgust at her son’s actions, and turns her head towards a half-naked, and already bruising Sansa Stark.

“Give me your cloak,” she mutters to the Kingsguard. He looks confused, and a little angry, but hands it over anyway. Cersei drapes it over Sansa’s bare shoulders.

“Come with me,” she says. The girl still looks horrified, and confused. She can’t seem to tell if Cersei is talking to her or not.

“Little dove,” she adds. The girl stands up tentatively, and clutches the cloak like a lifeline as she follows Cersei to a more secluded part of the castle.When they arrive at a spot Cersei supposes is private, or as private a spot as one can ever find in the Red Keep, she grabs the girl’s hands, and looks deeply into her eyes. Her eyes are the same bright blue as her mother’s, and her auburn hair cascades down her shoulders.

 _It’s almost like looking back in tim_ e, Cersei thinks, but she pushes the thought away

“Why didn’t you do anything?” the queen demands, “why didn’t you save yourself?"

"He’s the prince,” Sansa says, her voice soft and tiny.

“You’d never do anything,” she demands, “no matter who it is. Why?" Sansa has let almost every single person in King’s Landing push her past what should be her breaking point. Cersei needs to know why.

The girl smiles softly, sadly, and says, "Courtesy is a lady’s armor." A cold feeling crawls up Cersei’s spine as she is sent back to another time, another place. She’s suddenly filled with guilt, an emotion that she wasn’t even sure she could feel any more. Sansa is truly Catelyn’s daughter, and she can’t stomach the idea of holding her hostage, not any more at least. She’s not sure how she was able to stifle her guilt before. Cersei’s not sure if she can look at the abuse she’s allowed Catelyn’s daughter to face another second.

“Leave me,” Cersei tells her. The girl looks to her in confusion, but does not hesitate to flee, most likely to the relative safety of her chambers. Cersei feels her throat tighten at the thought of keeping her here any longer, and finds that she already knows the choice she must make.

It’s irrational and unreasonable, but it will probably be the only decent thing she’s done since she was a young girl at Riverrun. She goes to see a knight of the Kingsguard that at least was not present at the time of Sansa’s beating. It does not take her long to find Ser Meryn, and she does not have to take any time to work up her courage. She simply puts on her iciest look and strides in the way a queen always should.

“Your Grace,” he says, rising from his place at his small, wooden chair.

“I want you to return Sansa Stark to her mother,” Cersei says. Ser Meryn looks to her as if she’s grown a second head.

“Your Grace,” he says, almost tactfully, “I’m afraid that would be an ill-advised decision.” She _knows_ that it’s an ill-advised decision. She knows who her father’s host is fighting in the Riverlands, and she knows that it will likely bring harm upon them. But she also knows that she cannot ignore the girl who seems like a ghost of the one she fell in love with so long ago anymore. Not now that she’s truly seen it with her own eyes.

“I am queen regent,” she tells him, “it is not your place to question my judgement.”

“But the Starks-”

“Are none of your concern,” she says icily.

“I am a knight of the Kingsguard,” he says, “and you wish to send me to the enemy on a platter.”

“You are a knight of the Kingsguard,” she says, “and I am the queen. I will send you anywhere I see fit.” The man grits his teeth, but does not argue again.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he grits out.

“You should being to prepare,” she tells him as she leaves the room, “you are to leave today.” He sends her a look of complete hatred mixed with confusion, and Cersei feels a little satisfied as she makes the trek to her own chambers.

She sits down at her oak desk, and starts working up the documents required to annul a betrothal. It is only a few minutes later when someone waddles in.

“What are you doing to Sansa Stark?” her monster of a brother demands.

“It’s none of your concern,” Cersei grits out.

“I am Joffrey’s _Hand_ ,” Tyrion growls, “of course it is of my concern.”

“Father is Hand,” she quips.

“Father is not here,” he says, “and he left me the office in his place.” Cersei glares at him across the table.

“I am breaking the betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa,” she says.

“That does not explain the arrangements you have made for Sansa to _leave_ ,” he says.

“I am sending Sansa back to Lady Catelyn,” Cersei says, barely able to keep her voice from wavering at the other woman’s name, “and perhaps she will see sense and rein in that son of hers.”

“You haven’t been able to rein in yours,” he mutters, and Cersei sends him a glare that she’s well known for throughout King’s Landing.

“Why, _sweet_ sister?” he asks, “why are you really doing this?”

“I was under the impression that you wished to return Lady Stark’s daughters to her,” Cersei responds.

“I do,” he admits hesitantly, “but that does not explain your behavior.”

“Perhaps I wish to as well,” she says, and she desperately hopes that he will drop it. Tyrion will not stop her, she knows, but he might pry deeper and she might accidentally give away her feelings. She does not want the Imp knowing any more about her feelings than what is necessary.

She must keep the valonqar at bay.

“Perhaps,” he says softly, but his look of confusion has been replaced by one of recognition. Either he has figured out her motivations, or he thinks that he has. Cersei lets out an angry little breath as she signs another document.

She finishes the paperwork, gathers up the supplies required for the journey and finds Ser Meryn again soon enough. Then, they walk towards Sansa Stark’s small chambers. She opens the door, and finds the girl curled up on her bed with a book of songs and her red, puffy eyes.

“Gather your things,” Cersei says. The girl looks frantically up from her book, and clutches it to her chest.

“Where am I going?” the girl asks fearfully. Catelyn was never this fearful, not even when she was wed to a Stark and shipped off to Winterfell so long ago.  But Cersei supposes that her lover never had as much reason to fear.

“Ser Meryn is going to return you to your mother,” she says. Her words do not seem to register to the girl.

“I am sending you home,” Cersei says.

“Winterfell?” Sansa asks startledly.

“Of course not,” Cersei says, “Winterfell’s a charred ruin. I’m sending you to Riverrun.”

“Why are you doing this?” the girl asks softly, which is as close as she will ever get to demanding. She doesn’t believe that Cersei could make a decision based on the goodness of her heart, or guilt, or even love. Cersei had almost forgotten that she could too.

“Tell your mother-,” she says, but then she changes her mind and says, “tell Cat that I’m sorry.” Sansa seems startled and a little confused at Cersei’s use of the nickname, but she quickly regains her composure. The girl nods at her, but doesn’t actually seem convinced that Cersei could be _helping_ her. She seems even less convinced that the woman could feel sympathy.

The girl gathers up her small amount of belongings, and packs them up the way that she presumably packed them for her trip to King’s Landing. The girl grabs her bag, and starts to move out of her chambers.

“Sansa,” she says, and the girl turns abruptly to face her. She seems startled and confused. Cersei’s almost positive that she has never called the girl by her name before.

“I’m sorry," Cersei adds. Sansa nods absently, and nearly flies out of the room like a startled little bird. Sansa lacks the steel that Catelyn’s always had, but there’s no denying the resemblance to her mother.

 

 **  
** She hopes that Catelyn remembers her as fondly as she does her, and more than that, she hopes the woman will be able to forgive her. Perhaps, at least now she will be able to forgive herself.


End file.
